Occupy Eddie
by GIRL IN STORY
Summary: "I think It was trying to get revenge on Eddie," said Richie, because the more he talked, the more sense it made, and usually the opposite was true, so he was running with it, waiting to see how much it would hurt when he finally tripped.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Trigger warning for domestic abuse and disordered eating. I shot my plot-wad in the first chapter, so if you want to read more, please feel free to message me with suggestions.

* * *

"Pass the Pad Cashew?"

"Who are you, and what have you done with Eddie? Demon, I command you to depart from this man's body. _Omnis spiritus immunde_."

Richie was holding out the dish with the hand not currently crossing himself, but Eddie hadn't taken it. He was blinking at Richie like it was the first time they'd seen each other in twenty-seven years, which: been there, done that, got the I (Heart) Derry T-Shirt because their clothes were covered in blood and/or sewage.

"What the fuck," said Eddie. It didn't exactly sound like a question, but he was looking at the Losers like he expected them to answer it anyway.

"Eds?"

"What the _fuck_."

"Eds?" Richie said again, and then worried they had slipped into some sort of Groundhog Day scenario, where they only repeated the last two seconds, which would make it really hard to break the curse, because how he supposed to learn a life lesson in two seconds? His best time was twenty-seven years.

"Don't call me that," Eddie said, apparently on automatic.

"So do you not want the Pad Cashew, or…?" Richie was pretty sure it had nothing to do with the Pad Cashew, but his arm was getting tired.

"I'm allergic to cashews." Eddie still seemed to be working on automatic.

Richie put down the dish. He wasn't allowed to eat fried food. His dinner consisted of two salad rolls with low-sodium soy sauce. He was a little light-headed, which was not helping him get a handle on the situation.

Eddie's eyes were bush-baby big. He looked so innocent that Richie was almost fooled, until he remembered the previous night. Eddie's eyes had been narrowed then, so controlled and unaffected that his pupils had been barely pinpricks, brown irises flashing almost gold in the low light.

"No, you're not. We did that whole allergy test? The doctor drew a tic-tac-toe board on your back?"

Eddie shifted to manual. "Where are we?"

"Home," said Richie.

"Your home? In L.A.?"

"Our- Our home, Eds. You moved to L.A. After you divorced Myra."

"I divorced Myra?"

Richie nodded.

"Good," said Eddie. "Why the _fuck _can't I remember it?"

Richie panicked, and probably would have gone on panicking if the rest of the Losers hadn't been there for Anything But Chinese Night. Eddie used to talk him down from panic attacks, using the same breathing techniques Richie had taught himself as a child to help Eddie through his own psychosomatic asthma attacks.

These days, Eddie left him alone, because Richie was only doing it to get attention. Eddie knew what he was talking about. He had thrown away his inhaler months ago.

"What's the last thing you remember?" asked Mike.

"The– Richie in the Deadlights." Eddie's breaths were fast and shallow, accompanied by a high whistle. "Where's my inhaler?"

Richie found the backup he had hidden behind his Emmy and handed it over.

Eddie took a long hit. "Is It dead?"

"Yes," Bill said immediately. "It's dead. We killed it. Everyone survived, except—"

"I remember about Stan," said Eddie.

"That's not what I was going to say." Bill put his hand on Eddie's shoulder. "You were hurt. You went into shock, and you were technically dead for a few seconds. Richie gave you CPR. It's all over now. You're fine, and It's dead."

"I'm not sure It's dead," said Richie, because the same part of his brain responsible for two-second Groundhog Day had just come up with something else. "Um, I was a Superwholockian."

"What?" asked everyone, except for Eddie who said, "What the _fuck_."

"When I just um— I just joke exorcised you. Because you asked for Pad Cashew, and even though you're not allergic, you usually don't eat cashews anyway— I mean you're pretty big into veal these days, and I guess cashews just don't cut it, so…" Richie paused but only for breath. He hadn't spoken this much in months. "It was real Latin, because they used real Latin for their exorcisms in _Supernatural_, which I was into, because apparently I was a sucker for queerbaiting, even though my whole life was basically— Anyway, I think maybe when you died, It was also dying, so It possessed you, and I just exorcised It."

This was met with silence, so he took another breath and kept going. "That would explain how we killed it so quickly, because— Let's face it. That was way too easy. The rest is a little more— I mean It's not from this world, but that's sort of the _point_ of exorcisms, and—"

"You think," Eddie said, "that I have been living with you for—"

"Three months."

"—three months, as _It_, and you didn't notice?"

Richie shifted uncomfortably in his seat, which was only in part because his lower back hurt if he sat for too long. "Sort of?"

"You sort of mean that, I was sort of It, or you sort of didn't notice?"

"All of the above?"

Eddie tried to frown, but he was already frowning, so it looked like Pennywise's exaggerated pout. "_No one wants to play with the clown anymore." _

Richie looked away. "I think it had your memories. I mean, it always knew everything about us, right? And if it was so easy to exorcise, then it wouldn't want to draw attention to itself? So it would keep things subtle?"

"What things?" asked Beverly. Her grip on her chopsticks had shifted till she was holding them like knives or fence posts, and Richie wondered if she had even noticed.

Richie shrugged. "Just things."

"No," she said. "You've been living together for three months. Not just living together, you—"

"Stop," Richie begged, without meaning to.

"Richie—"

"Please." This time he meant to. "I don't want to pressure him into making a decision he doesn't really want."

"He already made that decision once," said Bev.

"I'm not sure he did."

"Okay, I know I haven't been here for the past three months," said Eddie, "but I'm here now, so stop talking about me like I'm not."

"I think it was trying to get revenge on Eddie," said Richie, because the more he talked, the more sense it made, and usually the opposite was true, so he was running with it, waiting to see how much it would hurt when he finally tripped. "For surviving, or for the fence post, or maybe for the whole Leper Epiphany."

"By occupying my body?" asked Eddie, like they were talking about fucking Wall Street.

"By doing things with your body that you would never do."

"Like what?"

"Like dating me," Richie said quietly.

"No," said Eddie, shaking his head, and Richie's heart sank all the way down to his bunny slippers, but Eddie was still talking. "That's not what you meant. I figured that out. I'm not an idiot, and we're wearing matching slippers. I don't even _like_ Donnie Darko."

"Blasphemy."

"What did you mean?" Eddie insisted.

"Did It hurt you?" asked Bev. One of her chopsticks had broken in two. Ben was picking out the splinter. She still hadn't noticed.

"No," said Eddie. "It was more subtle than that, wasn't it? It was like what my mom— What Myra did to me. I did that to you. Did I drug you?"

"No." Richie shook his head. "It was just diet pills. And sleeping pills for the nightmares."

"What the _fuck_." Eddie looked so mad, eyes narrowed, that Richie flinched away even though It had never hit him. That would have given It away. "And you just— You just let me? You just thought I would do that to you? You—"

"I'm sorry," said Richie.

"No, you don't—" Eddie took another hit on the backup inhaler. "You don't have anything to be sorry for."

Richie shook his head again. He hadn't been able to tell the difference between his biggest fear and the love of his life. He stood up, pushing his chair back from the able so fast it would probably leave bruises on his bony thighs. And now all he could think about was Captain Holt pretending to be straight by talking about thigh gaps. "_That's my favorite part of a woman. There's nothing more intoxicating than the clear absence of a penis."_

Richie only made it outside before throwing up because he hadn't touched his salad rolls.


	2. Chapter 2

After the Losers left, Eddie and Richie sat down at the kitchen table, where they discussed, at length, everything except for their feelings.

They poured two bowls of Midnight Cheerios (the Losers had been reluctant to leave). Richie added ice cubes to his, but Eddie hadn't seen the meme yet, so he just ended up with watery Cheerios.

They discussed the latest memes, political developments, personal developments for the Losers, and celebrity gossip. Richie offered to field questions about the ball sports, but only if he was allowed to refer to Google. Eddie frowned like he was trying to figure out how much of that was a joke.

They both offered to move out at the same time.

"I can call—"

"I'll get a ho—"

"If you say 'hotel,' Richie, I swear to god."

"Nope," said Richie. "I was offering to get a ho."

Eddie kicked Richie's shin under the table and immediately looked like he wanted to drown himself in his Midnight Cheerios.

"This is your home," said Eddie.

"It's your home too," said Richie. "I mean, I know it may not feel like it, but it's the only one you've got right now, so…"

"Okay," said Eddie. "I'll take the guest room. At least one of these is a guest room, right?"

"Yeah," said Richie. "You slept in the one at the end of the hall sometimes."

"Why?"

Richie held up both hands. "Okay, I know you're not happy about the sleeping pills—"

"Those can cause addiction, Richie!"

"—_but_ my nightmares can get pretty bad. And. Uh. Loud."

Eddie frowned.

"I'm sorry," said Richie.

"Stop apologizing."

"Sorry."

"Can't you be serious for once in your life?" he snapped.

Richie didn't think it would help his case, but, "I really am sorry, man. I pitched a bitch fit, even though you're the one who spent the last three months possessed by a Killer Klowns from Outer Space, and—"

Eddie waved his spoon dismissively. "I don't care about that."

"It was in your body." Richie blushed, because technically, It had been in his body too.

Eddie shrugged. "I spent most of my life feeling like my body wasn't my own."

"That's not the same," said Richie. "Look, I never had Sonja Kaspbrak as my personal Nurse Ratched, but Pennywise wasn't the first person— monster— whatever— to put me on a diet. I have a manager. Who might also be a monster? I'm pretty sure he doesn't sleep. But. That's not the same as— as this."

"No," said Eddie, "it's not, but I don't remember any of it. You do. That's what I care about. Now tell me what It did to you." Before Richie could respond, he added, "No jokes."

Richie reconsidered his response. "Nothing really. Just some crash dieting, which I'm pretty sure was ultimately responsible for the In Style Award. Oh, you did steal my scarf. So. My neck is kind of chafed."

Eddie gave him a look so hard it might as well have been a slap. "Let me see."

Before Richie could remember he could do anything to stop it, Eddie was touching him. It was gentle. A hand to the nape of Richie's neck, combing back the curls there so he could see the damage.

"This isn't from— What is this from?" asked Eddie.

"Well, I was outside for a while, uh," said Richie, "shoveling the walk."

He had one of those longass driveways rich people used to distance themselves from the plebes, and Richie had felt his own privilege beating down on the back of his neck along with the late-winter sun. Eddie hadn't let him back in the house until it was clean enough to eat off of, which Richie had only known he wouldn't have to demonstrate because he had already eaten his meal for the day.

"I trust we have a fully-stocked first aid kit?" asked Eddie, with barely-controlled rage in his voice. It sounded like…

It sounded like It.

Richie shrugged, which just seemed to make Eddie madder. He didn't say anything, but his lips flattened into a thin white line before he disappeared into the bathroom.

Eddie never bothered to control his rage around the Losers. That was one thing Richie had always loved about him. Eddie didn't bother being passive aggressive. He put all his energy into aggression.

He returned with a makeshift first aid kit. Lotion from Richie's first (and only) tattoo and bandages from Zombie Day Apocalypse by George C. Romero. He had attempted to break a Guinness World Record for extras cast during the Portland Film Festival 2015. Richie had seen _Day of the Dead_ with Eddie and Stan at the Aladdin in '85, and he had such fond repressed memories that they drove him to Portland, where he stood in the hot sun all day while his makeup melted off the obligatory penny compensation.

Richie had done his best to wash the linen bandages, but they were still distinctly pink. Eddie began applying Aquaphor to the back of his neck before wrapping his whole throat in gauze, like it was the stolen scarf.

"It's just a sunburn," said Richie. "Pennywise was trying to get revenge on you, not me. I mean, maybe me too. I did help kill It, but you're the one who figured out how. So."

"Okay," said Eddie in such a deliberately patient voice that Richie knew it was the one he used on Myra. "I understand that, but I think It tried to hurt me by hurting you— by hurting you in a way that I'd been hurt before."

Richie was pretty sure It tried to hurt Eddie by taking the "no" out of "no homo," but even he knew better than to say that. He didn't mention the fingernail scratches. It wasn't like he could ask Eddie to rub lotion on them. It wasn't like Eddie had said yes the first time.

"Let's get some sleep," said Eddie. "We can talk in the morning."

They ended up talking at three in the morning when Richie started screaming Eddie's name.


	3. Chapter 3

Eddie's previous associations with the word "primal" had involved a corporate retreat where men whose beer bellies were from Stella Artois did trust falls with liability waivers.

Richie startled awake when the door opened, hands clapped over his mouth, but then he reached for Eddie. Richie was tall, but he was so skinny that his body just folded in on itself, like a Jacob's ladder until it fit in Eddie's arms.

Eddie held him close and lied.

"It's okay. You're going to be okay. It's over. It's okay. You're going to be... "

Richie didn't say anything. That was normal enough. Richie talked a lot, but he didn't actually say much of anything. It was all werewolves, or comics, or comics about werewolves, which Eddie knew better than to say, but only because Richie would give him another lecture about Wolverine's origin story.

When it came to talking about himself, Richie's mouth might as well have been sewn shut. Usually, he at least deflected. He deflected, and he hid.

This time, he didn't even try to hide the tears. The sound was almost inaudible— a slight hitch in his breath. Eddie wouldn't have known he was crying at all if it weren't for the damp spot on the collar of his flannel pajama set.

The sensation of wet clothes, something Eddie would normally never allow, triggered a memory. It was the quarry. The Losers were there. Eddie was there too, but it wasn't his memory.

The Losers were arguing. Richie wanted to go straight to the hospital, but the low-energy forcefield of apathy that Pennywise had projected over their town for centuries was finally glitching. People would ask questions. _Police _would ask questions.

They had gone to the quarry first, so they could wash off the worst of the blood. Richie had wrapped his arms around Eddie and said all of the things Eddie said tonight, except he hadn't been lying.

The next morning, Eddie woke up early and snuck out of the bedroom to have a panic attack. It was his wedding night all over again.

He decided to spice up his panic attack with some waffles, but he didn't know the password to Richie's Grubhub. After a few failed tries, it turned out to be Eddie's birthday. That would have been less concerning if the paperless trail it led him down didn't end with the discovery that Eddie had taken control of Richie's finances. The credit cards were in his name. Even the deed for the house had been transferred to him.

By the time Eddie finished yelling at some Swiss accountants, he needed something spicier than waffles. He ordered an Irish coffee for himself and a Kahlúa for Richie. He decided to watch something on YouTube while he waited for Richie to wake up. He could get himself caught up, take a little pressure off the other Losers.

A highlights reel from the Emmys was in his Recommended feed. The video icon was a picture of Richie. Eddie hadn't even known he'd won an Emmy. He clicked on the video but left it on pause until his food arrived, only in part because the pause screen caught Richie mid-sneeze. Eddie tidied up haphazardly until he got the text to meet his Grubhub driver at the end of Richie's ridiculously long driveway. Once he was settled back on the sofa with his Irish coffee and waffles, Eddie hit play.

"I want to thank my manager, my friends, and— basically, everyone except me. I had nothing to do with this. But you're getting the Cliff Notes thank yous tonight, because I also want to make an announcement. I'm gay. Well, not exactly gay. I'm bi or pan, I guess. There's a lot of overlap, but I prefer pan because when you come out as bi, there this a whole, you know, list of standard responses including, like, "Why can't you make up your mind?" and, "Who do you think you're fooling?" and, "Do you want to have a threesome?" But when you come out as pan people don't know how to respond… See? You guys are so stumped right now."

There was some laughter, but it was stilted.

"I'll tell you the trick I learned when my friends started getting divorces like Henry VIII just invented Protestantism: Aloha really does work for everything."

The laughter was still a little stilted, but to be fair, half of the audience were wearing dresses so tight they could barely breathe.

"So how was that? I've only come out to five people, so I'm still working out the kinks. Most straighties don't know this, but coming out is an ongoing process. You know, there's work, home, new people you meet, so forth, and so on. I've come out twice, but that was because I had amnesia."

They might not have been able to breathe, but no one could raise an eyebrow better than the Hollywood elite. Eddie couldn't convey that much with a whole speech, let alone an eyebrow.

"That's right. I didn't remember my childhood until a few months ago, you know, when I threw up on stage? That will probably tell you something about my childhood. Now, I didn't technically come out as a child, but my bully outed me publicly, and there was also a lot of bathroom graffiti, so it was pretty common knowledge to everyone, including all of my friends, except for one. My crush. That fucker could have played poker, like, professionally, because I didn't know _he_ had a crush on _me_ until we got together for our thirty-year middle-school reunion."

Richie gave a soft laugh that sounded like a snore in the mic, and Eddie flashed back to Jade of the Orient.

_"You know, when I was a kid, fortune cookies actually had fortunes. Now they all sound like Tweets."_

_"That's not true," said Richie. "One time, I got a fortune that just said, 'Duck.'" _

_"I think that was the receipt," said Bill. _

_Eddie ignored them both. "You are your wisest counselor. The one you love is closer than you think. You will meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger. That kind of thing." _

_"Don't worry," said Beverly. "I'm sure you'll find him someday."_

"It was a whole thing. Our childhood bully tried to murder us. He stabbed my crush in the face, but it's okay. I axe murdered him. Now you know why I asked you to turn off your phones before the show. Just kidding. Not really, but before you start calling the cops, you should know that they already ruled it axe self-defense. Anyway, my crush is now my boyfriend, and I'm going to give him the only full-length thank you, because he controls how much sex I get. Thank you, Eddie. I couldn't have done this without you, and I wouldn't want to. You're the love of my life."

When Richie woke up, Eddie was still on the sofa, crying softly into his Kahlúa.

"Huh," said Richie. "It's my prom night all over again."


	4. Chapter 4

"Tough day?" asked Eddie.

Richie shrugged, or tried to, but his shoulders were too stiff to give more than an epileptic jerk. "Long day. You don't want to hear about it."

"Want to order takeout and watch _Jessica Jones_?"

"Oh, god, yes."

Eddie smiled and patted a spot on the couch. "Line it up. I'll order. What do you want?"

"Sushi?"

Eddie put his hands on his hips, but he didn't look mad yet. "What do _you _want?"

"Pizza? But I found this place that does cauliflower crusts, and not, like, the fake kind where it's ninety-percent dough and ten percent cauliflower. I called the restaurant and got the nutrition information. They even have veal pizzaiola."

Eddie's smile widened. "That sounds great, babe. Thanks for doing that."

Richie blushed.

About halfway through Episode 7 AKA Top Shelf Perverts, Eddie started rubbing his shoulders. Richie had never gotten a massage before. He couldn't help the flinch.

"Don't worry," Eddie whispered in his ear. "That means it's working."

Richie tried to relax into it. Eddie's hands and elbows were sure where they dug into his back, but it just felt like he was getting his ass kicked, very, very slowly.

"You're so tight, sweetheart," he whispered. "Maybe you should stop working."

"What?" Richie pushed his glasses up his nose, even though there was nothing to look at. Eddie was still behind him, still had hands on him. They moved lower.

"You already wrote the show. You're definitely getting an Emmy for that. They won't know Anthony ad-libbed half his lines. Isn't one Emmy enough? Do you really need to produce? And direct? And act?"

"Well, no, but—"

"You're a better writer anyway."

"I am?" asked Richie, because a better writer meant a worse—

"You're always saying how hard it is to break into Hollywood. You could give some young actor their shot. Besides," Eddie added. "You know how I feel about craft services."

* * *

"We should talk about last night," said Eddie.

"That's what my prom date said too. Are you going to tell me we're better off as friends?" Richie forgot to make it a joke.

"No," said Eddie.

"I— What?" It didn't sound like Eddie was joking either, and his delivery had always been as straight as he was, but it sounded like he was suggesting—

"When did we start dating?"

"Um." Richie pulled a bottle of vodka from one of his stash spots and stopped up Eddie's drink before swigging straight from the bottle. Eddie winced, but took a sip of his Black Russian. "I guess right away. After."

"Who started it?"

"Jesus." Richie shrugged. His shoulders felt tight, and he almost asked Eddie for a massage before remembering that this wasn't that Eddie. That wasn't Eddie. "What are we? Kids fighting on the playground? I mean, yes, we were, for a lot longer than most people, but— It was— I don't know. I thought it was mutual."

"Did you have feelings for me before that?"

Richie laughed, but it was not his best work. "Is that what you're worried about? That It— What? Convinced me to date you? It didn't take much convincing, Eds. I've had a big gay crush on you since we were eleven. You want proof you can go take a look at the kissing bridge, but you'll have to go alone, because I'm never setting foot in the state of Maine again. Not even if they turn Bar Harbor into an actual bar."

"Eleven?"

Richie shrugged again.

Eddie took the bottle of vodka and set it on the coffee table next to his own drink. He took Richie's hands in his own. Richie tried not to move, but usually, when Eddie was holding both his hands, it was because he was holding them down.

"What do you want, Richie?" he asked. "Whatever you say, you won't lose me."

"That's all I want."

Eddie gave him a very knowing look for someone who was no longer possessed by an omniscient entity.

"Is it?"

"No. I don't know." Richie shrugged again. "It's all I need."

Eddie hands moved up his arms to his shoulders. "May I?"

Richie nodded. He turned around and closed his eyes.

"Myofascial or longitudinal gliding?" asked Eddie, and Richie would have laughed, because he should have known the real Eddie had studied massage therapy, but he didn't laugh, because he should have known.

"Dealer's choice."

Eddie's hands were somehow both tentative and sure. They moved in slow circular motions that seemed to collect the tension like a broom gathering dust before sweeping it all away. As he was finishing, he leaned forward to whisper in Richie's ear.

"I ordered waffles."


	5. Chapter 5

They'd taken drunken kisses further than the alcohol could excuse and they were both competitive alcoholics. They were pretty competitive at gay chicken too. They'd never gone all the way, if only because Richie had never gone all the way with another man, and the idea was always enough to sober him up.

Fooling around with the kid felt wrong. Probably because Steve couldn't help thinking of him as a kid even though Richie was only two years younger than him (and five inches taller).

But this new guy— or old guy, to hear them tell it— Steve had to use all his PR skills not to ask if the kiddie killer from their hometown hadn't maybe had an accomplice.

Steve had never been the kind of guy to rely on intuition. Fuck, he was a guy. He used logic, and when that failed, money. Not _feelings _.

This wasn't a feeling though. This was a fucking sledgehammer. Steve would be the first to admit that he treated the kid like shit, but he was genuinely concerned for Richie's life. Especially after the puncture wounds started showing up.

That wasn't even on the abuse checklists, it was so fucking out there. Steve wouldn't have even seen them if he hadn't walked in on him in Hair and War Paint (the kid refused to call it makeup). Richie played it off like some _Fifty Shades of Gray _shit. Like this was him getting _lucky _.

This was before Kaspbrak somehow convinced him to all but quit the show. Then Kaspbrak had the balls to stop by Steve's office, and the shit he said. Steve would have fucking slugged him if he wasn't so worried it would be the last thing he did. There was just— Steve didn't know. Something was wrong with him. Something about his eyes. They were too close together or...

Something.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Eddie woke up first, but Richie found him crying into his coffee rather than Kahlúa. So. Baby steps. They spent the day catching Eddie up on _Jessica Jones_.

The morning after that, Richie woke up first. Then he woke up Eddie. "We have to get ready for the wake."

Eddie froze mid-yawn. It looked like he was at the dentist. "For the what?"

Fuck. Richie blinked. "I forgot you didn't remember."

"Who—"

"Steve."

"Who?"

"My manager." Richie shrugged. "No one you know, I guess."

"Jesus, I— I'm so sorry, Richie."

Anything But Chinese Night had been bumped up so the Losers could attend Steve's wake. None of them had met him, except for Eddie, but they wanted to be there for Richie. He tried to explain about shemira, but they all remembered Bubbe Uris. Spending the night with a dead body wasn't enough to deter the Losers Club.

It turned out most of Steve's friends were actually clients who didn't want to sit next to his dead body all night. The rabbi offered to supply trained shomeret, but Richie insisted on doing it himself. So it was the Lucky Seven plus one, cell phones off, and no distractions. Richie realized too late that he had hosted his own intervention.

"You killed my robot dog."

"This isn't a fucking joke, Richie."

"I'm not joking. It was brand new."

"Why can't you just tell me what I did?" asked Eddie.

"Because that was what you were going to do!"

Fuck.

Fuckity fuck fucks.

It had been isolating Richie. He knew that even then. The only reason It agreed to a Losers Reunion was because that was part of its plan to isolate him further. Richie had to "behave," a vague and impossible standard. When he failed to meet it, there would be a penalty. A video. Posted online or sent to the Losers. Like one would be worse than the other.

The shame he felt for doing it. The shame he felt for liking it. Like it wasn't bad enough God didn't make him straight. She had to add a few extra kinks.

Richie had given up on having a fulfilling romantic and/or sexual relationship by the time he hit seventeen, but hope was a fucking weed, and Pennywise did what he always did. He got inside people's heads. He showed them the things they were already afraid of. He told Richie the same things Richie always told himself. It was easy. Long enough in the dark, and the light hurts your eyes.

"What the fuck does that mean?" asked Eddie.

"Nothing," said Richie. "Just. It's embarrassing, isn't it? Being scared of anybody in your body. You're like four feet tall."

"Fuck you," said Eddie, but instead of going on about average heights, he said, "That's not how abuse works, and you fucking know it."

"Fuck," said Richie, but shithead he was, he couldn't help being a little relieved that the subject had changed. "Fuck, Eddie. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

"I know," said Eddie, but he was knuckling his eyes, and Richie felt like half a sack of poo.

"So... I was thinking," said Bill.

"Don't strain yourself," said at least four voices in unison. Richie was pretty sure one of them had been him. He did most things on automatic these days.

"It was anticlimactic, wasn't it?"

Richie frowned. "The wake?"

"No. No! I mean…"

"The exorcism," said Mike.

Bill nodded.

Richie snorted, but softly, out of respect for the dead. "Well, sorry it didn't satisfy horror master Bill Denbrough, but you can't be the only one who struggles with your endings."

"No, I mean…"

"So was the battle," said Mike. "The battle with Pennywise. It's been… bothering me. You saved Eddie, and then…"

This time Eddie snorted, and it did not sound at all respectful. "Well, we all know how that part happened."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Richie.

"You saw me die in the Deadlights."

Richie looked for something to throw up in, but the only receptacle nearby was Steve's casket. He swallowed. "Eddie—"

"Don't lie. I've played Street Fighter with you. Your reflexes aren't that good."

"They still weren't," was all Richie managed.

"That's not what I meant either." Bill was looking back and forth between them, like he was afraid someone was going to start throwing punches, even though that was his thing. "The battle with Pennywise was anticlimactic because he didn't really die. What if... "

"What if the exorcism was the same for the same reason," Bev finished his sentence, but Ben didn't seem to mind.

"You think Pennywise is still a— around?" he asked.

"Where?" asked Richie. "One of us?"

He almost wished there was that easy an explanation for why he was the way he was.

"Um, Richie…" Bev's face scrunched up, still unfairly attractive. "How did your manager die?"

As a many-headed Hydra, they turned to look at Steve. He looked like Steve. Deader. Wearing more war paint than usual, but still. Steve.

"Stroke," croaked Richie, but that wasn't the important part. The important part was, "In my front yard."

"What?"

"He was in the driveway. I found him there. His face was so red, I didn't recognize him at first."

"Red?" Mike frowned. "From the sun?"

"That's what I thought, but… the cops said the blood had pooled in his face. Like he'd died face down, and then someone had moved the body, or at least rolled him over. They decided it was my dog."

"The robot dog?"

"They're very realistic these days. Kind of uncanny valley, really. Especially when they're in heat. Anyway, they think it tried to bury him, but it gave up because he was too heavy. It must have buried one of his arms. They couldn't find it."

"Jesus," said Bill.

"Is that why I killed your robot dog?" asked Eddie, like that even mattered anymore, but maybe it did because…

"They were going to check its footage," said Richie. "The cops were going to check its footage, but you'd already…"

"Stop frowning, Richie," said a voice, and Richie smiled on automatic before he realized whose voice it was. Steve was sitting up in his casket, one arm propped on the silk lining that was nicer than Richie's sheets, made-up lips pursed in a little pout, like he used to wear whenever Richie refused to tell a particularly humiliating joke. "You would look so much better with a rictus."


End file.
